


Ophelia

by auxanges



Category: Hatoful Kareshi | Hatoful Boyfriend
Genre: Domestic, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:24:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I saw him, Doctor. Sinking like a rock. I tried to help, I really did, but I kept being pulled away.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ophelia

**Author's Note:**

> 9/23, happy birthday hitori!  
> inspired by https://twitter.com/y_damurushi/status/646325309474652161  
> the warning is for typical nanaiwa behaviour more than anything but to be safe... anyways

It’s out of the ordinary for Hitori to sleep in, not that many things about Hitori are ordinary to begin with. Something about the morning urges him to waste more of it, though, and he obligingly shuts tired eyes again and sinks back into dreams until the smell of coffee wakes him up for good.

There’s a mug already on the table, bright red and almost overflowing. A second mug sits on the counter, its owner cleaning what Hitori guesses is a spill.

Those are pretty ordinary, where the doctor is concerned.

Hitori shimmies into the closest chair. “You never pour me a coffee,” he remarks cheerily, wrapping his hands around the mug. Heat pricks at his palms. “It’s usually all gone by the time I’m up.”

Shuu doesn’t look up from wiping the counter. “There was some left today.”

He takes a tentative sip: the coffee burns Hitori’s chest as it goes down. It’s black, the way the doctor takes it. Hitori reaches for the sugar.

“It’s your birthday.”

Shuu says it offhandedly, like a comment on the weather or his thoughts on pathological viruses, and Hitori almost drops his cup. He hadn’t said anything about it. “How did you know?”

“I have your file, remember? The date’s on it.”

Of course Hitori remembers. Hitori remembers everything the doctor says.

He brings the mug to his lips again, blowing on the surface. “So where’s my present?”

It’s meant as a joke, his voice as sweet as the sugar he’s dumped into his coffee, so he’s surprised when something hits the table beside him.

A box of bleach, adorned with a dollar-store bow.

Hitori offers Shuu his biggest, sleepiest smile. “You shouldn’t have, Doctor.”

“Well, I did.” The doctor lowers himself into the chair opposite him and raises his mug. “I’ll help you with it after breakfast.”

“That won’t be—”

“It’s your birthday.”

Hitori’s coffee is already starting to cool. The apartment always seems colder, when the other man is in the room with him. “You keep mentioning that. So, what are we having?”

“I already ate. Make your own breakfast.”

*

Hitori makes toast with strawberry jam for himself, and by the time the table is cleared Shuu is halfway through his third cup of coffee. Were it any other day, Hitori might tease him about risking his health (“that much can’t be good for you, Doctor, you didn’t survive bullets just to do yourself in with caffeine did you?”), but today he sits on the toilet lid in silence as Shuu scans the instructions on the box. His hair is wet, his mind is someplace else.

He’s been neglecting his roots: artificial gold gives way to soft brown hues along his hairline. Hitori makes a point not to spend more time in front of mirrors than he has to, and a task like this one is easy enough to put off.

Procrastination is not in his usual habits, not any more than sleeping in, but sometimes Hitori feels like habits are sewn into the clothes of another man, and they die harder than their original owner.

Shuu pulls on a pair of gloves and motions for Hitori to turn. He hears the shake of the bottle and trains his eyes to the floor.

“You didn’t sleep well.” Shuu’s tone has the same bored, professional timbre to it, a grounding factor of sorts that Hitori has clung to more than once.

“I was thinking.”

“Absolutely fascinating.”

Shuu’s fingers are in his hair—not for the first time, only now they carefully massage product into where they’ve previously yanked, ghost over the locks at the back of his neck where they’ve wrapped and squeezed. Hitori isn’t picky about which side of the doctor suits him more; the unusual gentleness of his movements alone sends familiar goosebumps along his arms, under his sweater.

“We went for a walk, by the river,” he says suddenly, almost startling himself.

The doctor’s hands slow, but don’t stop. Hitori’s scalp tingles. “Who went for a walk?”

Hitori ignores the question. “It was my birthday back then, too. Not too warm, not too cold. We found a tree to eat under. I had a jam sandwich. He had yogurt, I think.”

Shuu tips Hitori’s head forward. He continues, addressing his slippers as much as the doctor. “We thought it would be fun, you know, to go swimming. In the river, I mean. He said it was like his present. He was kind of like you, Doctor.”

“This is a valid present. I bought it and I’m doing you a service.” Shuu winds the timer on the sink.

Hitori waves a nonchalant hand. “The water was colder than we thought, but we jumped in anyway, clothes and all. The current was pretty strong. I kept thinking hands were pulling me. Have you ever gone swimming?”

“No.” Shuu’s voice is no longer flat: it has an air of cautious security about it, one Hitori doesn’t seem to hear. “Then what happened?”

“He drowned.”

Silence coats the pair like a second skin, one both men have made use of in the past and aren’t sure if they still are anymore.

“I saw him, Doctor. Sinking like a rock. I tried to help, I really did, but I kept being pulled away.”

Shuu peels off his gloves. “I think that’s enough.”

“But—but I saw him. Again, I mean. He came back, to grab me and pull me his way. Around me like this—” Hitori’s arms snake around the doctor’s waist like a vise, a head full of chemicals and haze hitting Shuu’s vest.

“—he was so _strong_ …dead people shouldn’t be that strong, but they are. They always are…”

His words are muffled, as if far away, or perhaps underwater. Shuu raises a hand under his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I said that’s enough.”

“I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t. I had to get back to shore. I made it, and I didn't look behind me, I swear. And Doctor…I haven’t gone back to the river.” Hitori looks up at him, with wide eyes that, had Shuu been a more compassion man, might have tempted him to press his lips to Hitori’s and shut the other up for good.

The shrill ring of the timer seems to wake him for the third time that morning, and Hitori stands to dunk his head under the sink for a rinse. The doctor watches, one hand on his back; partly out of practitioner’s habit; partly out of a thinly worn attempt at sympathy.

It’s not in his job description to help Hitori differentiate between dreams and reality. Shuu has already tried too many times.

Hitori beams at both their reflections in the mirror. “That’s much better. Thank you, Doctor.”

Shuu echoes the wave of his hand. “I have to update some files,” he says, without mentioning whose files he has in mind. “Shampoo on your own.”

“Can I braid your hair after?”

The doctor makes a face.

“C’mon, it’s my birthday!” The teasing notes are back in Hitori’s voice, high and bubbly.

“Fine. Shampoo first. I have to work.”

Shuu wipes his hands on his vest – there’s bleach residue on it, he’ll have to wash it – and turns to leave. Hitori calls after him. “Doctor?”

“What is it?”

Hitori’s eyes are fixed on the mirror again. “He was smiling. In the river. I saw him smile at me.”

“I’ll put on more coffee,” is all the doctor says.

The day passes in relative silence, save for the scratching of Shuu’s pencil on paper and the low hum under Hitori’s breath, nonsensical tunes as he weaves his fingers through the doctor’s hair.

They drink their coffee together and pretend it thaws the frozen water in Hitori’s arteries, but when he shivers himself to sleep on the couch beside the doctor it’s with a smile on his face.


End file.
